


It's A Goddamn Word

by Jenye



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Soulmate AU, Tumblr Prompt, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6441010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenye/pseuds/Jenye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first words your soulmate speaks to you appear on your skin at an early age.  Frank doesn't give a damn what the universe decides.  Karen doesn't want what the universe has to offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Goddamn Word

**Author's Note:**

> I have a thing for soulmate AUs. And I definitely have a thing for Kastle. Tumblr prompted, this happened.

He’s never bought into the whole “soulmates” bullshit. He doesn’t pay much attention to those words written on the inside of his left bicep. Those words that were supposed to be the first words his “soulmate” was going to speak to him? They didn’t mean a thing. They are nothing more than a conspiracy for society to be forever searching for something. So when his appeared four days after his eighth birthday, he blew it off.

Even when he was young — his parents weren’t “soulmates” and they got along. Sure they fought and bickered, but they lasted. A couple friends found theirs early on and it seemed alright, but even those who didn’t carried on just fine. Maria wasn’t his “soulmate” and his love for her nearly eats him alive to this day.

Words don’t fucking decide who you’re supposed to be with. This — what we have, that decides. We decide. He argued with her one night. She stayed because she knew he was right — or convinced herself, either way. She stayed and they were happy. Deliriously, imperfectly happy.

Then it’s gone. And those two fucking words remain, in hair-thin loopy, cursive writing. Now they angers him every time he catches a glimpse because he knows his chance at true love died with her that tragic day. He knows his “soulmate” couldn’t hold a candle to that. That is why he’s become what he has — a man starved for justice, a man thirsty for tainted blood.

So that night, when he’s knocking the lights out in some man’s eyes, he’s not thinking about the possibility that not only is his “soulmate” still out there but he’s actually in the process of protecting her.

Her screams are what had drawn him there in the first place — he’d been leaving the diner he’d grown accustom to sitting at throughout the night, living on tar-like black coffee Rita poured with excellent accuracy, when the distressed sounds made his blood run cold; too familiar and hitting far too close to home. He instantly rounded the corner of the nearest alley and saw two figures cloaked in darkness. One was pressed against the brick wall while the other struggled against them.

No words were exchanged, no need. Frank just goes to work. And it’s not until the asshole is slumped against the dumpster and his knuckles throb from healing wounds being broken open once again that he even turns to look at her. She’s ruffled and her chest heaves under her jacket, but he’s impressed: she doesn’t look at all terrified. She looks shocked, eyes wide, but there’s a still a sense of control about her. Like this isn’t her first rodeo.

He’s walking toward and he half expects her to step back, but she doesn’t. She simply stares back at him as if she’s witnessing a mythical creature coming to life. He’s about to ask her if she’s okay, but then she speaks and he’s frozen.

“You’re him.”  
  
And it’s like all the breath has been sucked from his lungs. He just stares at her for the longest time and he sees her lips moving, but he hears nothing except for her original words, her first words to him. You’re him. You’re. Him. Those words etched in black on his flesh have finally been spoken. And he’s not relieved, intrigued or enamored.

He wants nothing to do with it. So he turns to leave, without a single word.

\--

She’s always had mixed emotions towards the words so boldly etched across her inner thigh. But mostly she felt confusion. First over the placement, she had seen so many placed on people’s wrists, arms, even their necks. She had even heard of people having theirs written on their hip or ankle, but their inner thigh? None. And then there was the fact that it looked like it was literally scratched into her skin. The black lines repeated over themselves to make her word. One word. How very generic — just like everyone else’s. But hers wasn’t the common “Hello” or “Hi”. No, hers was far too formal for most of the society she lives in.

And for the most part she doesn’t buy into the folklore of it all. She had a friend while she was in college that practically obsessed over the idea and he’d finally found him — it was perfect, and for a while she thought this “soulmate” business was truly something. And then he’d died in a car accident only seven months after they’d met. Her friend had been devastated, so then what? He was meant to spend his life terribly alone and in mourning? Was the universe that cruel?

She’s now seen enough to believe that it is.

She’s also seen enough to believe she probably doesn’t want a “soulmate” in this godforsaken place. It’s going to be painful and it’s going to be messy. She’s got enough mess in her life and she hasn’t even met this mysterious “one”. And honestly, all the others before this one haven’t shown her enough hope to make her think having her “soulmate” would really be any different.

So she keeps herself closed off, because her latest puncture wounds have bruised her heart enough for her to think there’s something to be said for a life of solitude. Although, standing in the admissions area of the prison has her regretting those thoughts. The white of the walls is almost blinding in the florescent lights and her heels echo against the concrete surrounding them.

Her fingers grip the straps of her purse tightly. She’s nervous, but not because of him. She’s met him before. Well, not formally. But he’s saved her once and ever since she’s felt this compelled spirit toward him. She quietly kept up with all new reports about this unknown assailant running around Hell’s Kitchen leaving nothing but guilty bodies in his wake.

Another vigilante, most news outlets were claiming. The way Matt fidgets in his seat when she reads it aloud one day in the office only makes her blood boil a tiny bit. But she wants — maybe naively — to believe he is something else, something more.

Now she’s helping Matt and Foggy represent him. She swallows when she hears the locks click their release for her to move deeper into the prison. The guard next to her is speaking, giving her all the protocols and rules for her to abide by while she’s meeting with him. She’s not listening; instead she’s walking forward to where he’s already sitting at the steel table.

His face is expressionless beneath the bruised and battered flesh. He doesn’t look as menacing as she expected. No, he actually looks thoughtful, calm. His hands rest against the cool surface of the table, the cuffs clinking when he shifts in her presence. She pauses only for a moment, the guard muttering something about waiting just outside the door. Neither of them moves as the door is shut behind them.

She wishes so badly that she could remember what he looked like the night of her attack, but the dark shadows made that nearly impossible. But she remembers how he’d walked toward her — not in some sort of stalking or intimidating gesture, but almost as if he’d been concerned. And then he’d had a change of heart, she guesses, disappearing completely.

He now sits in front of her and she wonders if he remembers her. She finds herself oddly upset by the idea of him not. But she clears her throat, tucking hair behind her ear as she walks toward the table, pulling several folders out of her purse. She’s sitting down, setting them down in front of her as she introduces herself, “Hello Mr. Castle, I’m Karen Page. I’ll be assisting Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson with your case.”

And then his gruff voice comes through with unbelievable clarity and she’s frozen.

“Ma’am.”

Her eyes bolt up to meet his and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t look fazed, but he also doesn’t look unknowing.

\--

She bites her lip so hard it almost bleeds when she feels him nipping at the sensitive flesh just below his word. She giggles when his stubble scratches against her smooth legs, squirming beneath him. Her fingers card through his short hair, tugging just slightly when he hits a particularly pleasurable spot.

Her eyes are still hazy with sleep, but she’s certain a naked Frank Castle between her legs is how she wishes to wake up for the rest of days on this planet. She tilts her head on the pillow to get a better view. Slowly his lips are leading the charge up her body, stopping every once in awhile to pay special attention to his favorite areas: her right hip, her bellybutton, the skin between her breasts, her collarbone, her jaw. And then finally he meets her lips.

“Good morning.” She whispers, letting her hands roam down the contoured muscles of his arms as he settles between her open thighs. Her fingers stop at the place her words still linger on his arm, still and forever speechless over its power.

“Ma’am.”

She smirks against his lips, pulling him closer to her as her legs wrap around him. Her hand grabbing at her thigh with lust filled possession. She’s aching for him, a state she believes is nearly constant at this point, and the way he grinds against her in the most delicious way has her believing he feels the same.

And then there is a distinct cry from the small baby monitor that sits atop the nightstand. Both still before Frank groans into her shoulder as she laughs, breathlessly.

“It’s your turn.” She turns into his ear, kissing there after she speaks.

Slowly and with great dramatic effect, Frank untangles himself from his wife and out of bed. Karen watches him, her mouth practically watering at the sight of her gloriously nude and rather aroused husband. He reaches for his sweatpants and slings them to rest low on his hips as she pulls the sheet back over her body. He points back at her as he heads for the door, “You owe me.”

She laughs deviously, “Can’t wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Come find me over on Tumblr (likcoln)!


End file.
